


Well Suited

by ladyeternal



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, At least as my fics go, Center Ice Kiss, Eventual Smut, I just want all my boys to be happy, I only barely understand how the NHL works, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kent Parson Needs a Hug, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Post-Episode: s03e25 Cup IV - Center Ice, Reference to V-Shaped Polyamory (Scraps/OMC & Scraps OFC), References to Past Consensual Underage, Slow Burn, Tarot, The Tarot Fic, actions have consequences, kent parson protection squad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-06-24 06:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15624513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyeternal/pseuds/ladyeternal
Summary: Everybody knew that psychics and palm readers and fortune tellers were really all just cons:  reading people’s subtle cues and making pronouncements just vague enough that people would believe they were real.  Kent Parson wasn’t going to believe anything the tarot reader said when he finally gave in to the impulse to see what so many other people fell for.  He wasn’t.He could never have guessed what would be in the cards:  either in his reading, or in the hand that life would deal him afterwards.





	1. Some Hands Are Better Than Others

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beaniebaneenie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaniebaneenie/gifts).



> Author’s Notes: This fic would 1000% not exist without my squad on the Parse Posi Posse, with special thanks for support from the following brilliant people:
> 
> Farasha  
> beaniebaneenie  
> blindinglights  
> believesinponds and the @sprints (y’all know you you are. ~_^ ♥ )
> 
> Y’all are beautiful people that have helped me in so many ways with this fic: from cheering me on when I needed it, to word-sprinting with me to keep my productivity up to **invaluable** intel on how the NHL works when it comes to contracts, free agency and everything else that happens off the ice. I couldn’t have done this without you guys.
> 
> Feedback is adored, so if you like the fic, please comment! And the more details the better; I love knowing what people enjoy about my work.
> 
> Disclaimer: Check Please and its characters belong to Ngozi. I own little more than a tabby that gets destructive when he feels ignored and am only playing with this world for my own amusement and the free entertainment of others.
> 
> Music: Now available on Spotify!
> 
> Enigma - Return to Innocence   
>  Good Heart - Starship   
>  Your Mistake - Sister Hazel   
>  Falling In - Lifehouse   
>  Glitter in the Air - P!nk   
>  Ocean - Gorky Park

_/~ooooOOOoooo~\\_

It was really a pretty inconspicuous place, for Vegas. Just a quiet little shop in one of the bedroom communities that made up the metro area: innocuous store front in a plaza with a fro-yo place, a 7-11 and a hair salon. He wasn’t particularly religious, so there wasn’t any reason for him to personally feel uncomfortable there; Kent had always taken a very ‘you do you’ attitude about what people chose to believe came after this life. But if there was anything that sent other people into a full head of steam faster than sex, it was religion, and Kent really didn’t want to know what would happen if anyone on the team found out he’d been in a place with pentacles hanging from the ceiling.

Growing up in Ithaca, he’d seen the shops on the Commons. He’d never set foot in one; never had the time; but he’d always wondered if it was all just the money-making hokum that most people thought it was, or if there really was a grain of truth in what these ‘psychics’ said they could do.

The guy behind the counter seemed normal enough: dressed as casual as any college bro, with the pendant around his neck the only outward sign that he was anything other than Christian. Kent had requested the appointment for before they normally opened as a favor, not wanting photos of him coming or going to wind up on Instagram if he could help it, and the fact that the reader was another man seemed at once wildly unusual and oddly soothing.

“Just let me lock up the front,” the guy told him, smiling politely. Kent nodded and waited near a display case filled with stones and bronze-colored statues, vaguely aware that these were the kinds of things his sister collected. She would know all of the meanings without needing to read the cards; Kent made note of a few pretty ones that she might like for her birthday before the owner came over to lead him back into a room behind a long dark curtain.

The room itself seemed to defy Kent’s expectations. It was small but comfortable, with a few pieces of art hung on walls painted navy blue. Two chairs sat on either side of what looked like a card table covered in a brown table cloth, and there was a shelf unit nearby with bags and boxes in neat order.

“Have you ever had a reading before?” The reader’s voice was pleasant, his tone light and gentle. He gestured for Kent to choose which chair he wanted, his light blue eyes studying Kent carefully as the blond picked the one closest to the door.

“No.” Kent took a steadying breath as he sat down, wondering why he felt so jittery. “Not really sure why I’m here now, to be honest. Just... wanted to see what it was all about for once, y’know?”

The reader made a soft humming sound, then turned and selected a box from the shelf and sat down across from Kent. From inside, he withdrew a bundle of rich indigo silk wrapped around a deck of cards. “Well, hopefully, you’ll get something out of this. You paid for an hour, so I’m just going to set a timer, but I’m not recording this session. You can if you want, as long as you record the cards and not my face, okay?”

Kent nodded. “No problem.” He wasn’t interested in recording anything about this. It was either going to be so stupid that he wouldn’t want to remember it... or something was going to happen that he wouldn’t forget on a bet. He honestly wasn’t sure which at this point, but the way the hair on his arms kept standing up, he wasn’t taking chances.

There was a standard disclaimer to sign, of course; the kind of thing that protected places like this from anyone taking things too seriously and suing the Hell out of them later. Then the reader, whose name was Robert, handed him the cards he’d unwrapped out of the silk. “Shuffle them until you feel like you should stop,” he instructed. “Don’t bridge them; they don’t like it. Think about a question you want answered while you’re doing it. When you feel like you’re done shuffling, draw three and set the rest aside.”

Momentarily taken aback, though he wasn’t sure why, Kent hesitated. “Can I look at them?” he asked carefully.

“Sure, if that’ll make you feel more comfortable.”

Turning them over in his hands, Kent looked over the deck. The artwork of them was really beautiful: all muted greens and deep plum purples and warm oranges and yellows. Each card had a title at the bottom, and the pictures were more detailed than Kent might have expected. He didn’t know much about art styles, but there was something about the images that was almost comforting, that made him want to study each one in turn.

But he was burning his hour, and so he put them back in a pile and shuffled. It was almost hard to control them; without being able to bridge and snap them, cards seemed to keep trying to jump out of his hands. Finally, not sure whether it was frustration with the way they kept leaping out while he was trying to shuffle them neatly or if he was ‘done’, Kent set the deck down and pulled three cards off the top, sliding them to Robert without looking at them as if dealing a hand of poker.

With a small smile, Robert turned each one over and laid them out left to right facing Kent. “It’s okay to look at them; you’re supposed to, in fact.”

Kent shrugged, glancing down at the draw and reading the titles at the bottoms of each one: Ten of Pentacles. The World. The Tower.

There was something unsettling about the last card. Kent swallowed quietly as he stared at it, taking in the lightning that was striking the top of a massive tree and setting it ablaze. The other two cards were peaceful by comparison, and it caught his eye that the first card showed the sun in one corner and the middle card showed the full moon in the opposite. He liked those cards; they probably meant things he’d want to hear.

But the last card made him nervous.

“The first two cards are going to sound pretty obvious to you,” Robert told him. “They mean you’ve achieved worldly success and financial stability, through no small amount of hard work. You’re enjoying your success, and everything right now feels very still and perfect and good.

“Now the Tower card tends to scare people, because it looks like destruction. It’s not a bad card, and it doesn’t mean something terrible is going to happen. But it does mean that there’s a disruption coming. It’ll be sudden, and it’s going to push you to re-examine things you’ve held onto for a long time in a not-very-gentle way. This is usually a warning that you need to make a clean break from something: either something from your past that’s holding you back, or of a fantasy that you’ve held onto for a long time that’s keeping you from moving forward.”

 _Yep. Didn’t think I was gonna like that one._ “Any way to know what it’s talking about?”

Robert gestured at the deck. “Go ahead and reshuffle; then cut the deck wherever you feel like and draw another card.”

Feeling a growing unease, Kent did as he was told. But before he could finish, another card jumped out of the deck and landed on the table. Robert held up a hand before Kent could return it to the deck. “When cards jump out at you, it usually means that they’re important to the question you’re asking. Set the rest of them down; we can go back into the deck if we need more.” As Kent did so, Robert reached across and drew the card up to lay it out where the others were.

A hooded figure, bearing crossed swords, blocking a path. A long-necked bird perched in a twisted tree, a heart-shaped pendant hanging from a branch. Across the bottom: Two of Swords.

“You’re in a stalemate with someone,” Robert told him. Kent almost felt like he was shaking, though his hands were still where they rested on the table. “You both know the truth, but you won’t talk about it because you refuse to compromise. Neither one of you is willing to give ground, but the result of stubbornly refusing to acknowledge what’s right in front of you is that nothing can move forward or backwards. And your heart grows still in the meantime.”

The knot that tied itself in Kent’s throat was the only thing that kept him from speaking Jack’s name aloud. Without being instructed to, he reached out and cut the deck, drawing the top card from the pile still on the table and laying it out. This one looked like a figure in freefall, a great swath of red like a cloak sweeping up away from her shoulders. Ten birds flew around her, the trails of their flight like great curved blades. The caption read “Ten of Swords”.

Robert nodded. “Something happened that sent everything spiraling out of control. Something that no one could have stopped from happening. There was nothing you or anyone else really could’ve done; the only thing to do was ride it out and pick up the pieces when everything finally became still again”

“Okay...” Kent took a breath. He was glad the room was well lit; what shadows there were felt too close. “Okay. So... the first set... the Tower card there... you said that hasn’t happened yet?”

Robert nodded. “In a three-card spread, the third card always represents the future.”

“So how do I know what it’s supposed to be?” Kent asked, trying not to sound like he was afraid of the answer. “And more to the point, how do I keep it from being like... like the Ten of Swords thing that happened before?”

Without answering right away, Robert reached out and picked up the cards, dealt and undealt, tucking them neatly back together again before handing them back to Kent. “Ask them.”

Kent did as he was told. This time, when one of the cards jumped, he set it aside and kept going until he felt like he couldn’t anymore, then drew the top three cards and laid them out next to the jumper-card.

Nine of Swords. Three of Wands. The Devil. Seven of Swords.

The last two cards came out upside down; Kent moved to reverse them so they were facing the right way, but Robert motioned and Kent’s hand stilled. “Inverted cards come out that way for a reason. They’re fine as they are.”

“What do they mean?” Kent asked carefully, fighting down the jittery feeling in his muscles.

“Guilt is what’s keeping things locked in place. Guilt and fear. Whatever event your Tower card represents, it’s going to leave you feeling vulnerable to your own inner demons. You have the strength to break free of them, especially if you take a leap of faith, and when you do, you’ll be able to take a path you didn’t even know was there; expand your horizons beyond what you can see right now from the stalemate you’re locked into.

“You’ll be tempted not to; it’s easier where you are, and to listen to the parts of you that say you can’t. That what you’re looking at right now is all there is to see. But with the breaking of illusions that will come with the Tower event, you’ll have a chance to see those inner demons for what they are, and to gain independence from them. And when you do, that’s when you’ll find someone you can trust. Someone who owns their part in the way things play out and expects others to do the same. Someone honorable, and honest with themselves as well as with others.”

Kent’s eyes finally tore themselves away from the cards. He felt winded, almost like he’d been running at full speed. This was all hitting a little too close to the bone. And since he was the one shuffling and drawing all the cards, he couldn’t imagine any way that Robert could be rigging them.

Besides, all the rumors about he and Jack had only and always ever been that: rumors. No one had ever known for sure, and most people had quit repeating them years ago. There was no reasonable way for this man to know anything about what had really happened between he and Jack even if he’d followed hockey obsessively for years. And, Kent reminded himself again, Robert wasn’t dealing the cards.

“You’re still not sure about this, are you?” Robert asked shrewdly. “I know that look.”

“This just seems a little...”

“On the nose?” Robert finished with a smile.

“Impossible,” Kent corrected, though there was none of the snark in his voice that would usually be there.

Robert shrugged. “We’ve still got time. Gather up the cards and shuffle again. Ask a different question this time. Something unrelated to what you asked before.”

It took a moment for Kent to decide what he wanted to ask. Outside of Jack, and whatever turmoil the cards were predicting on that score, there was really only one other thing in Kent’s life that meant anything: hockey. And so he concentrated on his team. The team he’d earned the trust of. The team that had made him captain and that he’d led to victory so very many times. _Will I get to stay with them?_ he asked, shuffling the cards and almost shaking off his self-consciousness about doing so. _Or am I getting traded someday?_

He wasn’t sure what he wanted the answer to be as he laid out three of the cards. After all, it wasn’t unreasonable that he’d be traded someday; it was always a possibility in professional sports, no matter how good a player was. But he was comfortable here, and it seemed as far removed from anything related to Jack as he could possibly imagine.

Three of Swords. Five of Wands. King of Pentacles.

The first card almost hurt to look at, the imagery was so sad: three swords and a dying swan, with a bleeding heart in the air above them. The center card was bright with movement: a covey of foxes leaping and running around a man with a staff. And the last card was only a man: standing straight and strong as an oak with his arms stretched out to his sides, wearing a crown that looked like a great golden sun-disk with a star in the middle.

“This,” Robert started softly, tapping the top edge of the Three of Swords, “represents abandonment. Isolation. Betrayal. Whatever you asked, there’s a great loneliness at the heart of it, and you feel like there’s no one you can rely on.”

Kent swallowed hard. That didn’t bode well at all.

“But you’re going to get through it anyway, because when everything starts piling up against you and it seems like you’re going to be swarmed under? That’s when the core of you kicks in. That hit of adrenaline that makes you fight back right when it looks like that fight will be impossible. And when you come out the other side, you’ll find that you have the support that you were looking for all along. Something or someone that’s stable and steady, and you’ll be able to draw from that until you can get your feet under you again.”

Without really thinking about it, Kent folded the cards back into the deck and shuffled again. He wasn’t sure how long was left in this session, but he hoped the cards, which had been way too on the nose for him to feel like he could ignore what was happening, would answer one last question. Or at least, give him a clue to the answer.

“Draw just one this time,” Robert told him as he set the deck down, as if knowing exactly what it was that Kent was asking as his final question.

The card he flipped was striking in its imagery: a merman swimming amongst a school of fish. Powerful. Masculine. Graceful. There was such a sense of motion in the card, as if the merman would complete the dive he was half-poised for as Kent watched. But the impression went away in a blink, and Kent read the bottom caption: Nine of Cups.

“You wanted to know how to recognize him, right?” Robert’s voice was kind on the guess, and when Kent nodded, he went on. “That’s a little more intuitive than the rest of these. But you’ll know him when you see him by his exuberance. His joy. Whoever he is, he’s a passionate man and not afraid to express it. He’ll be what you’ve needed all along.”

“How can you be so sure?” Kent asked suddenly, the words breaking free. “How can you be sure that they’re right?”

“None of us can be sure of anything,” Robert replied sagely. “The cards tell you what they see, but the future can change with a single choice made by someone you don’t even know; what people call ‘the butterfly effect’. But what I can tell you? Is that the cards can read your past and present energies far more clearly than they can foretell the future.

“You’re happier and lonelier than you’ve ever been in your life, and you’re stuck in place because of it. It’s not a stretch to predict that something will eventually happen to break you out of that stasis if you don’t do so by your own choice, because nothing in the universe can stand still and unchanged forever. What happens from there...” Robert shrugged. “Well, that’s up to you.”

Taking a long, deep breath, Kent glanced back down at the merman on the card. Poised over a cup, ironically enough. There had been a time when he’d have automatically assumed the card would represent Jack. Now, after everything else he’d drawn, he wasn’t so sure.

It took another moment for Kent to realize that Robert was making note of something, the scratch of pen on paper finally registering. “I’ve got all of the cards you drew today written down for you,” he told Kent. “You can take it with you. And I’m happy to schedule you for more sessions, discreetly of course, if you decide you’d like to come back.”

Blinking, as if to clear his vision, Kent took the page when Robert handed it across the table and folded it into his pocket. “Thanks... maybe I will.”

Robert quirked a smile. “I may not be able to keep my husband away next time, though,” he cautioned wryly. “He wouldn’t tell a soul, but he’s a big Aces fan.”

It felt good to laugh a little, to dispel the heavy atmosphere that had come with the truths the cards had told. “It’s all good, man. You got something I can sign for him while we settle up?”

Robert grinned back. “I think he left his Aces cap in the office.”

Kent stood up and fished around in his pockets for his Sharpie. It’d become a habit to carry one everywhere, because Kent had never been able to deny anyone an auto as long as they weren’t an asshole about it. “Perfect.”

* * *

For weeks afterwards, Kent did his best to put the reading, and everything about it that had given him goosebumps, out of his mind. He didn’t have the luxury of getting caught up in what the cards might have meant, not while the season was in full swing. Not when he was facing off with Jack across the ice for the first time in seven years, and it took everything he had to keep a lid on the emotions that stirred up.

But he couldn’t help seeing the hooded figure in his dreams, blocking his path with crossed swords beneath the twisted tree with the heart-shaped pendant hanging just above his reach. Nor could he help that in his dreams, the face beneath the hood was one that he’d once traced with lip and fingertips. One that had once borne smiles only for him, like secrets whispered in the shadows.

He couldn’t help the way he sit bolt upright, chest heaving and sheathed in sweat, after a nightmare of falling endlessly amidst a flight of birds, knocked over the edge of a great cliff by a blast of lightning splitting a nearby tree in two, accompanied by thunder that sounded like a man’s voice telling him something he’d never expected to hear.

It did and didn’t get easier after that game against the Falconers, either. The dreams still came, with Jack’s blue eyes even more vivid and the heart no longer a jewel but Kent’s own, torn from his chest, and Jack refusing to let him have it back despite no longer wanting it for himself. The great storm that rent the trees around him in two sent him careening from the top of Taughannock Falls, and when he plunged into the water below, there were strong arms waiting there to catch him, a voice with Slavic inflections muttering in his ear beneath the roar of the undertow.

A dozen times, Kent almost went back for another reading. Caught himself fingering the business card before putting it back in the bedside table drawer and grabbing his lube for a quick morning jerk before practice. Glanced out the window as he drove through the streets of cities he’d skated in a dozen times before, wondering if he could get away for an hour to get an anonymous reading from someone Robert couldn’t possibly know, just to see…

But he never did. He couldn’t afford it, he told himself: not the time, not the emotional investment, not the additional turmoil that would come with getting messages from unseen forces that couldn’t just spell out the exact who, what, where, when and how of what they wanted him to know. He needed to focus on the season, and on trying to position the Aces for another run at the Cup. On keeping Jack from getting his hands on it in his rookie year.

Except luck wasn’t on his side, and the Aces failed to make the Final. And so he concentrated on Kit, and working out, and organized team outings to Sip ‘n’ Tip so they could watch the Final games and cheer the Schooners on.

Which was how he came to be sitting at a table on June 12, 2016, nursing a vodka tonic with lemon, on the night of Game Seven. The bartender, responding to the shouts from the rest of the Aces, had turned down the sound after the third period ran out. Swoops and Scrappy and Carl were clustered around him, and Kent was doing his best to remember that serious drinking was best done at home, where he wouldn’t have to use his celebrity status to try and wiggle out of getting slapped with a DWI. His phone was buzzing with alerts. He was ignoring it.

“Uhhhh…” Scrappy’s voice was low and careful, almost too quiet to even be heard over Carl and Jeff. He was holding up his own phone. “Hey, Parser: you see this?”

“It’s all over the screens, Scraps,” Kent replied, trying to not sound too bitter about the impossible run of luck that Jack had been gifted since signing with Providence. Further proof that no matter the price that came with Bad Bob’s legacy, Jack had it easier than Kent ever would…

“Naw, look: it’s all over social.”

Scraps held out the phone to Kent after thumbing it unlocked. Kent took it from his hand, surprised at how steady the other man’s seemed compared to his own. Looked at the clip being retweeted almost faster than the numbers could spin on the counter below it.

And knew in that moment what it meant to be struck by lightning.


	2. Freefall

_/~ooooOOOoooo~\\_

Kent wasn’t drunk. He didn’t get drunk in public. It was stupid and invited nine kinds of Hell from the paparazzi, if not the cops, which did not make for happy coaches or GMs. He saved his serious drinking for when he was at home, safe within the walls that meant he had a right to do whatever the fuck he pleased as long as it didn’t land him in the hospital and he could skate when he was supposed to.

But he didn’t remember the drive home from Sip ‘n’ Tip.

He didn’t remember unlocking his door, let alone closing it again once he was inside the house and turning off the alarm.

Kit was beside him, purring worriedly in his ear. It was the only way he could be sure he hadn’t let her out by accident when he’d come into the house.

All these things he must’ve done, since he was lying on the recessed bed in his private den, curled onto the cushions, his shirt smelling of the bar and his pants feeling tight where they were twisted around his legs. His shoes felt heavy. So did his watch. He didn’t remember punching in the code to get into this room.

And yet here he was, with Kit beside him bumping his forehead with hers and giving him tiny kitten licks along his hairline. One hand was outstretched, resting on the warm, furry lump of her body. The rhythm of her ribs rising and falling beneath his palm was a comfort, and her lack of protest meant that he wasn’t pressing down on her too hard. Just resting against her, feeling her sleek, soft fur tickle against his fingers as she breathed with him.

It was all going to come back again. The rumors. The sideways glances. Jack was out. Jack was in love with the tender little blond that Kent had met at that party when he’d tried to convince Jack to sign with the Aces. He’d been able to dodge them before; outskated them until they were just so much background static, unimportant in the face of his Stanley and Jack’s unimpressive performance in the NCAA prior to his junior year. They hadn’t mattered. Not in the face of what he could do on the ice. If things were different, he could’ve almost convinced himself that they wouldn’t resurface; that the focus would all be on Jack and the Southern beau that he’d decided was worth the firestorm that coming out on national television would bring down.

The cards had told him differently. They’d warned him, albeit too vaguely for him to avoid what was coming. He wasn’t going to be able to duck the whispers this time. This time, they would tear his life and career apart until there was nothing left but the fall.

His phone rang. He couldn’t imagine who would be calling him right now. Since the phone was in his left front pocket and he was curled onto his left side, the ringtone was barely audible before it died away, then started back up again at once. It couldn’t be the team; they’d all been out with him. His mother and sister wouldn’t have been watching the Stanley if he wasn’t in it, but the… It… was all over social media, so Katie might’ve seen it. Except it didn’t have the right rhythm to be Katie’s ringtone.

Rolling enough to dig his phone out, he pulled it up to his face so he could see the screen. His heart leaped into his throat and stopped when he saw the name emblazoned across the caller ID.

Jack was calling him.

How was it possible that Jack was calling him? Jack had just won the Stanley Cup and come out as bisexual homoromantic in front of the entire civilized world. By all rights, his former lover should’ve been doing one of two things by now: keg stands over the Cup, or pounding the little blond into the closest available flat surface.

At least, that’s what Kent would be doing in Jack’s place. He actually _had_ done the keg stands the two years the Aces had won. The entire team had. Getting his dick wet had needed to wait until the team wasn’t making celebrity appearances at every club from Hakkasan to XS and he’d been able to get away to cruise Babylon: Vegas in peace.

The ringing started again. Kent’s eyes devoured every pixel of Jack’s name for another moment, almost until the call went to voicemail again, before Kent’s thumb swiped across the screen and picked up the call. “What. The. Actual. _Fuck_ were you thinking, Zimms?!?”

_“Is not Zimmboni. Just borrowed his phone in hopes it had your number.”_

Kent froze. Slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position, he scratched absently behind Kit’s ears when she trilled at him in concern. “Mashkov? What the fuck-?”

 _“Wanted to check on you,”_ the Russian explained. _“We were not knowing Zimmboni would kiss B on ice after winning game. Would have tried to talk him out of it, or warn you, if known before happen.”_

“And exactly how in the name of fuck did you get the idea it would matter to me one way or another if he did?” Kent snapped. He wanted it to be a dream. To be nonsense. To be anything other than…

_“Made good friends with B after finding out he is the one making pies and jams that Zimmboni brings. We talk about Samwell friends, and American Georgia, and you.”_

_*Oh, God… oh, God, it’s already started. That little eavesdropping peach hasn’t done enough?*_ “Look, man: I don’t know what the kid might’ve said, but whatever he knows is only Zimms’ half of the story.”

_“I’m having eyes, too, Kent Parson. When B says you and Zimmboni have past, that you tried convince Zimmboni to join Aces, I’m watching pressers from first game after Jack signs to Falconers. I’m seeing your face when they say Zimmboni’s words to you.”_

Kent could hear his heartbeat roaring in his ears. This couldn’t be happening. It just _couldn’t_. “Yeah? So what about ‘em?”

_“Is easy to tell when someone is living with broken heart when you have seen same face in own mirror.”_

It brought Kent up short. No one else had _ever_ seemed to notice that. Mostly because he’d thought he was pretty good at hiding it. “Mashkov-”

_“So I’m borrowing Zimmboni’s phone when his back is turned before it locks, and am outside party, calling to make sure you are all right. Cannot have been easy, seeing Zimmboni kissing B when you are not knowing it will happen. Wouldn’t have been easy if you had, but could have avoided if given warning.”_

There was a lump in Kent’s throat that hadn’t been there a minute ago. Kit was rubbing against his knee, and Kent was massaging the back of her neck. “You’d better get back in there before he notices it’s missing.”

_“I’m having few minutes more. Zimmboni’s friend Sranyy makes good interference, and nobody think anything funny about injured D-man if he needs break from celly over Final he could not play in.”_

“Shit, man, I almost forgot.” The reminder pulled Kent a little further back from the edge, let him focus on something other than his own reeling emotions for a moment. “What’re they saying about your knee? You in trouble for next season?”

He could almost hear Mashkov’s giant, goofy grin spread across his face over the open line. _“Will be better than ever, Kent Parson. You see next year; no matter where you are on ice, I be right there in your way.”_

“I usually make people that’re gonna be up my ass that much at least buy me a drink first.”

The flirt was out before he could stop it, and the booming laugh that sounded on the other end in response made something warm blossom at the base of his spine. _“I’m no cheap date. Buy you steak, good whiskey. Dessert to melt in mouth.”_

Kit was in his lap by now, purring and rubbing against his knee. It was the only thing preventing him from developing the most unexpected erection he’d had since his eighth grade English teacher had recited the St. Crispian’s Day speech from **_Henry V_** and he’d ducked out of his fifth-period study hall to catch a cold shower in the boys’ locker room. “Keep talking like that, Mashkov, and I might get the idea you’re trying to take advantage of my emotional vulnerability… sneak in under the radar.”

 _“Maybe.”_ There was no mistaking it now: the big Russian was definitely flirting with him, not just chirping. Kent had heard that tone before. _“But you ask around. See if anyone says Alexei Mashkov makes promises he won’t be keeping.”_

“Maybe I will.” The doorbell rang, startling Kent before he could think of a way to keep the conversation going. Kit jumped from his lap and raced to the door, tail waving, and Kent murmured a quick ‘hang on’ to Alexei as he clicked on the security monitor to see who it was.

Chessy, Baller, Scraps and Jazzy were all out on his porch. Each of them carrying some variety of food or beverage and trying to look casual about showing up at Kent’s house at almost one in the morning.

“Some of my guys are here,” Kent told Alexei as he pushed to his feet. “I gotta go, and so do you. Zimms is gonna be looking for that phone at some point.”

_“Is okay. Am glad you will not be alone tonight.”_

Kent didn’t quite know what to do with that, or the way it made the corners of his mouth twitch into a soft smile. “Thanks, Mashkov. Don’t drink too much.”

 _“No worries, Kent Parson. I drink just enough.”_. The line went dead.

Shaking his head, Kent headed for the front door and opened it, looking with some show of annoyed expectancy at his teammates. “If you guys came looking for a Stanley party, you picked the wrong house.”

Chessy looked sheepish, holding up a half-dozen pizza boxes in both hands. “We’re looking for anti-Stanley party?”

“Kinda like an un-birthday,” Baller chimed in, arms wrapped around two laden grocery bags. “Except with less tea, more trash-talk, and a marathon Warcraft session.”

Unable to help himself in the face of their hopeful expressions, Kent laughed and let them inside. In the midst of the stampede that followed, the five of them fetching even more provender from their cars and setting up in Kent’s living room, Kent found himself standing next to Jazzy, who had picked up Kit and was stroking her with a contented smile. “You hear from your brother?”

“Couple hours ago.” Jazzy looked at Kent, his expression slightly guarded. “They really didn’t know, Cap. Sam’s pretty pissed at Zimmermann, actually; stealing their thunder like that. He was already overshadowing the rest of the team: making the A and every talking head that can get air time saying he’s the reason they got their Cup run to begin with. And now? On top of scoring the winning goal and making MVP and all, he goes and kisses a boyfriend nobody outside the team knew about on live T.V.? That’s the only thing anybody’s gonna remember about tonight, and the only ones that don’t know that right now are Zimmermann and the boyfriend.”

“It’s not like you’re really thinking in that moment, man,” Kent offered, privately a little amazed that his first instinct was still to defend Zimms against outsiders, even after everything. “You remember.”

“Yeah, I do.” Kit squirmed and Jazzy walked her over to the kitchen, setting her down near her food shelf. “But that’s still one stunt I’d never pull, and from the sounds of what Sam was saying, Zimmermann’s gonna find that he didn’t exactly do himself a favor, letting the boyfriend talk him into making out on center ice in front of the entire goddamned world.”

A tremble of foreboding ran down Kent’s spine; he shook it off and steered Jazzy back towards the others. “Come on, man. We got better things to do tonight than contemplate whether or not Zimms just made a life choice he’s gonna regret.”

Jazzy nodded, grinning as they settled in to battle for the dawn.

* * *

_June 19, 2016_

Kent had never expected to find himself in this situation. His rookie contract had been standard despite the insane amount of money being first pick overall had set him up to receive, and his agent had leveraged that first Stanley win into an even better one. But no matter how good the player, there was always a chance that something like this might happen.

It still felt like being slapped in the face with a latex glove full of ice water. “What do you mean, they’re not extending?”

“We knew it was a possibility, Kent.” Mike was absently fiddling with his now-empty Groelsch bottle, giving a quick, lopsided smile as Kit rubbed her head across his ankle before winding her way over to her food shelf. “No matter how good you are at dodging press questions about Zimmermann, the stories aren’t going away. There were too many guys in the Q that saw things you two didn’t intend, and every time one of you ducks out of a straight answer, it just pours napalm on the speculation. The Aces’ front office isn’t saying anything one way or the other, which is answer enough: they don’t want the Aces’ brand to get tied to whatever somebody eventually digs up about what you and Zimmermann were doing behind closed doors when neither of you was even legal yet, even if that means potentially losing a franchise player by letting you go into free agency.”

Draining his protein smoothie, Kent slumped a little on his bar stool. His agent was right: they’d known this was possible. In fact, Kent had known it was coming. The dying swan. Vegas might be America’s playground where anything seemed possible, but it had always been run by made men. And men like that had never accepted men like him. “So what’s the play?”

“There are plenty of teams that will be clamoring to make you an offer if the Aces don’t commit to an extension.” Opening his briefcase, Mike pulled out a legal pad folio and flipped it open. “There are eight teams currently with more than fourteen mil in cap space. Anybody with less than that isn’t likely to make an offer worth considering.”

“Nine,” Kent corrected absently as Kit made a soft noise of inquiry. She was almost out of her dry food, and she hated running out of that.

“Sorry?”

Looking up, Kent met his agent’s eyes with a steady, solemn gaze. “There are nine teams with more than fourteen million in their cap, Mike.”

His agent was quiet for a long moment, undisguised surprise on his face. Kent used the moment to slide off his stool, fetch Kit’s kibble from the cabinet and pour some out into her bowl. “Okay,” Mike agreed finally. “Nine.” He cleared his throat as Kent put the cat food away and washed his hands, then grabbed a jar of unsalted mixed nuts and a bottle of water before returning to his seat. “Out of them, I’d say we can reasonably expect an offer from the Jets, the Rangers, the Islanders and possibly the Avalanche that would be top contenders.”

“The New York teams don’t need franchise players,” Kent mused. “The Jets & the Avs do.”

“Other than the Jets, the Rangers and the Islanders have the most cap space,” Mike reminded him. “The Avs are looking to move up in the league, but their cap is the tightest of the four.”

Kent sighed. There was nothing they could do at this point but let the offers come in and see how well he could do. He was coming to the end of a thirty-five million dollar contract with the Aces; five years of his life making more money than he’d ever even imagined possible growing up in Ithaca. If he could get another million or two a year out of another team, it might be worth becoming just another face in a team full of famous players. And playing for the Rangers or the Islanders meant that he could live closer to his mother and Katie. Maybe even get a place in the Adirondacks as a summer home. Someplace quiet and out of the way, safe from the prying eyes of the press.

“There’s still time yet,” Kent finally heard himself saying. “And we don’t know how many other GMs are gonna decide that keeping queers out of the clubhouse is more important than poaching a player with two Cups to his name. So let’s just see what happens, and we’ll make decisions when we have to.”

“You’re the boss.” Mike slid the folio back into his briefcase and closed it. “In the meantime, try not to worry, okay? No matter what, I’m gonna make sure you get a good deal. It’s what you pay me for, after all.”

Kent gave a half-hearted smile as he showed Mike out. “I know that. Keep me posted.”

Closing the door, Kent turned and leaned his back against it, sliding down to the floor and burying his face in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees and his legs crossed. It was a nightmare.

It was fate.

Kit reached up, pawing at his hands and trilling softly at him. Kent lifted his hands away from his face, giving her room to clamber into his lap and up onto his shoulders, purring comfortingly in his ear and rubbing her face against his. “At least you’ll never stop loving me, girl,” he said ruefully, reaching up to scritch under her chin. “Yeah… at least I can always count on you.”

Kit purred her agreement, only jumping down when Kent finally pushed himself to his feet, trying to convince himself that just going back to bed until it was all over wasn’t the best idea anyone had ever had. Even if it meant drifting into dreams of dying swans and falling endlessly past flocks of crying birds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sranyy is Russian for Shitty. ~_^


	3. Interlude One:  New Dealer, New Deck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reminder that this is a canon-divergent fic & therefore not compliant with the most recent update posted by Ngozi. ♥

_/~ooooOOOoooo~\\_

_June 18, 2016_  
 _Providence, Rhode Island_

 

On the surface, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the meeting. Owners had meetings regularly with their front office leaders even during the summer months, discussing the moves that they wanted to make in the never-ending chess game that NHL management played as they tried to position their teams for a Stanley Cup run in the upcoming season. Even for a relatively new team that had just won the Cup, no one would’ve thought anything unusual about salary-cap specialist Brian Taranson and General Manager Julia Kelley arriving at Tarqin Navras’ mansion to discuss possible player acquisitions or trades, even at seven in the morning on a Saturday.

“So,” Tarqin began as he settled into a chair. Brian and Julia followed his lead, seating themselves around the table in the gabled gazebo where breakfast had been laid out just before their arrival. “What’s the plan?”

“We’ve got some good prospects in development,” Julia told him. “And Brian and I were talking cap space on the way here. We’re in a good position to make some offers.”

“How good?”

“There are a number of players that are going into unrestricted free agency that would make valuable additions to the team,” Brian commented. He unlocked his tablet, pulling up a list and handing it across to Tarqin. “We’ve got a good stable of players right now as it is, so we don’t want to deal away anyone in trades if we don’t have to.”

“I agree.” Barely perusing the list, Tarqin set the tablet aside and sipped at his coffee. “But there’s a name missing from that list.”

Brian and Julia exchanged glances. “Who?”

“Kent Parson.”

Julia’s jaw dropped open in surprise; Brian’s eyebrows were rapidly attempting to join his receding hairline. “Are you serious, Tarq?” she blurted.

“There’s no way the Aces let his contract just run out,” Brian chimed in. “Not with two Stanley Cups under his captaincy and a 31-point streak.”

“It’s not public yet,” Tarqin replied calmly. “Though it will be soon enough. I have it on very good authority that the Aces’ owner is less than pleased with the rampant implications that the captain of his team is somewhat other than heterosexual, and his front office isn’t willing to cross him on it.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Julia remarked dryly. It was a open secret that Giovanni Mancini, the Aces’ owner, was not a man to be gainsaid lightly. “He’s coming off a thirty-five million dollar contract, Tarq.”

“And there are at least four other teams that’ll make offers he’d be a fool to not consider,” Brian added. “Two with almost double our cap space.”

“If the Rangers or Jets were likely to offer him more than fourteen million dollars a year, I’d be concerned.” Tarqin sipped at his coffee again, his bearing unflappable. Immovable. “We both know they won’t, Brian.”

“And you are?” Brian asked carefully. 

“If necessary.” Ignoring Brian’s shocked expression, Tarqin plucked a tangerine from the fruit bowl and began to peel it. “I doubt it’ll come to that, though. There isn’t a player in the NHL currently pulling more than eleven million, and Parson is certainly worth that.”

“And Parson isn’t even close to his peak years physically.” Julia’s excitement was barely controlled in her voice. “If we can lock him into eight years with no trade, we’ll have snatched up one of the best players the League has seen since Gretzky without giving away a thing.”

“Hang on a second,” Brian said, the fingers of one hand lifting from the table in a halting motion. “Tarqin, are you sure about this? I mean, the whole reason Mancini’s forcing his front office to let Parson go into free agency is because of the rumors about the relationship he allegedly had with Zimmermann back before the draft. If we pull out all the stops to get Parson onto the same team as Zimmermann, the press is going to go hog wild.”

“I’m aware of that, Brian,” Tarqin replied, carefully stripping the pith away from the tangerine’s sections. “I’m also more than aware of the whispers that the rest of the team is turning against Zimmermann as a result of the incident and his subsequent responses to press questions.”

Julia took a breath, hesitant even to take advantage of Tarqin’s pause to chew and swallow one of the cleaned sections but unable to leave the matter lie. “PR’s had words with him,” she offered. “Some of his answers in the past couple days are better. But on the whole, he’s not handling the backlash well, and it’s almost like he doesn’t understand that he needs to redirect focus to the team and their win.”

“Why not?” Brian asked when Tarqin didn’t.

“Mostly? Inexperience,” Julia replied with a shrug. “It’s not his fault; after all, there was no choice but to keep him out of the spotlight after his OD: not if anybody wanted him to live and recover. Samwell University is a good, solid little school, but it doesn’t have a high profile either in academia or in the NCAA. That, plus its high ranking in the LGBT community for tolerance of out culture and the fact that his mother is an alumna, made it the ideal safe place for him to figure out what the next step after recovery was: someplace with low enough pressure that he wouldn’t be at serious risk for a relapse of his condition. That’s probably all Bob and Alicia were worried about at the time, and absolutely no one can blame them for that.

“But the consequence of saving his life is that he wasn’t properly prepared to deal with all the off-ice stuff that comes with playing in the NHL. He simply wasn’t ready for this level. We should’ve seasoned him for a while on the Pincers before bringing him up, but we allowed ourselves to be lulled by how good he is on the ice and it’s come back to bite us in the ass.”

A moment of quiet. Then, from Tarqin: “Which is why we’re going to take advantage of his two-way clause.”

It was Julia’s turn to stare, though her disbelief was mingled with something else. “PR’s going to have an aneurysm.”

“I pay them a lot of money to get over those,” Tarqin replied dryly.

“The perception is going to be that he’s being punished for the kiss,” Brian added. “He played phenomenally for us this season, and we can mouth platitudes about winning the Cup being a team effort all we want, but the fact remains that one of the most significant factors in the team even making the Cup run to begin with was Zimmermann.”

“Which makes him a perfect choice to move down to the AHL,” Julia countered, almost before he’d finished speaking. “Think about what he did with his college hockey team: they were one of the lowest ranked in Division I when he became captain at the end of his freshman year. By the time he graduated, he’d gotten them to the Frozen Four. That means not only being able to develop the incoming players after he became captain, but to help the players that were already on the team improve in ways other captains hadn’t gotten out of them. Hell, we gave him the ‘A’ this past season for the same reasons. He’s got a proven record of being able to help other players develop in a short amount of time and he knows how to rally a team on the ice. We’re sending Bad Bob Zimmermann’s son, Stanley Cup MVP and one of the few rookies to ever make the ‘A’, down to our AHL team specifically because he has a knack for bringing out the best in other players, which only bolsters our roster in the long run. The press release practically writes itself.”

“It also forces the press to split their focus,” Tarqin pointed out. “Which automatically forces them to change their approach to both the win and the kiss, which in turn is good both for Zimmermann and for the team as a whole. It’ll take Zimmermann out of focus during team press events, which will make it easier for the rest of the team to redirect the conversation, and the aspects of the story that are more personal to Zimmermann can start to be treated separately from the win overall.”

“Which will last the precisely ten minutes between the news breaking that we’re moving Zimmermann down and that we’re trying to sign Parson,” Brian replied acidly.

“Come now, Brian: where is your imagination?” Tarqin chided. “If we move Zimmermann down, that frees up more cap space to spend on wooing Parson to the team. Zimmermann stays with the Pincers for a year to develop both his own talent and others’, and when we bring him back up…”

“We have the Parson-Zimmermann no-look on our first line,” Julia finished. Her blue eyes were lit with excitement. “It’s brilliant, and if anybody wants to say that there are other motives at work, the official position of the front office has a through line that nobody who’s serious about sports commentary can argue with.”

“Anything else is prurient gossip,” Tarqin added. “It’ll be hard to argue a homophobic agenda in Zimmerman’s move down if we’re openly courting a man that many believe was once his lover. No one with any credibility would ascribe a more melodramatic reason behind the move, like sending Zimmermann down because Parson wouldn’t sign if we don’t, especially if we move him before Parson’s free agency becomes public knowledge. Why should the one have anything to do with the other if we move Zimmermann before having any idea that Parson is even available to poach?”

“Parson could say no anyway,” Brian pointed out. “Any contract we’d offer means that sooner or later he’d be sharing a locker room with Zimmermann again, and if what they say about their history is true-”

“He won’t.”

Brian blinked at the calm assurance in Tarqin’s voice. The minutest flash of something behind his eyes as he said it. “You can’t be sure of that.”

“Yes, actually: I can.” Tarqin met Brian’s eyes with no trace of what that flicker might have been glinting through. “If we offer more money, a better contract than anyone else? Parson won’t turn us down over Zimmermann. In fact, I’m willing to wager that Zimmermann would be the factor that decides things in our favor if another owner decides to match us.”

“So we’re locked?” Julia asked. “Move Zimmerman and then top whatever offers anyone else makes for Parson?”

Tarqin nodded. “I don’t care if you have spend the entire cap for the next decade to get it done.” He moved his chair back and retrieved something from the seat of the chair beside him, placing it carefully on the table between them. A Falconers jersey, with “Parson” and “90” emblazoned across the back. “I want to see that on Kent Parson’s back before the summer’s out.”


	4. Run Me Like a River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations, and the recipe for Kent’s “it’s my birthday, I’m not driving & IDGAF” cocktail are at the end. ♥

_/~ooooOOOoooo~\\_

Life had to keep being lived. Kent still needed to go to the grocery store when he ran out of eggs. He still needed to go to the cookout he’d been invited to by the Ellerbees two blocks down, since he’d promised to bring a platter of his mother’s gluten-free peanut butter chocolate chip bars. He needed to feed Kit and do his laundry and take his Porsche for an oil change and tire rotation.

The normalcy of continuing to live his personal life as if nothing had changed only served to highlight the absurdity of everything that was currently happening in his professional one.

* * *

_June 20, 2016_

If pressed, Kent would have to have said it started while he and the Parser Protection Squad were out for breakfast. Swoops had been the only one of them to not show up at his house on the night of The Kiss, as he’d promised his wife to be home right after the game. But they’d all had his flank every day since: Swoops and Scraps and Chessy and Jazzy and Baller; a unit whose sole purpose was to keep a wall of Large Hockey Muscles between Kent and the homophobic assholes and reporters and anyone else who couldn’t be bothered to act like a decent human being when it came to Kent’s privacy.

They were busy demolishing a breakfast buffet when Jazzy had gotten a text and then damned near choked on his waffles. Chessy had started pounding him in the back as he’d wheezed and sputtered around the mouthful, the hand with his phone in it flung out into Baller’s chest in a move that would’ve done a soccer mom coming to a sudden stop proud.

Baller read the text and let out a low whistle. “Fuck me sideways,” he muttered. “Zimmermann’s been moved down to the AHL.”

The whole table stopped except for Jazzy, who was still trying to get his breath back from accidental waffle inhalation. Kent had gone absolutely white. “How you can be sure?” Chessy asked, rubbing at Jazzy’s chest to help ease the muscles that had seized in response to his choking.

“Jazz’s brother on the Falcs sent the text,” Baller replied. “Coaches just announced it to the team today. They’re making St. Martin captain, and Zimmermann’s gonna be playing for the Pincers this season.”

“He say why?” Scraps asked, carefully eyeing Kent’s stricken stillness.

“Something about using his leadership qualities for developing prospects.” Baller shook his head and handed Jazzy back his phone. “Damn; guess Zimmermann didn’t figure they’d take that option when he decided to hog the spotlight.”

“You know that wasn’t what he was thinking when he did it,” Swoops admonished immediately, taking over so Kent didn’t have to. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, man: you think Ovechkin wouldn’t kill to be able to French Backstrom in front of God and all if the Caps won?”

“Maybe should’ve been thinking,” Chessy commented, swiping a sausage from Kent’s plate. “Then maybe we are not probably losing our Captain to another team that will not look after him on ice, and Zimmermann could still be pretending to be hotshot & not rookie with lucky streak.”

“Looks to me like his luck just ran out,” Scraps tossed in, shrugging a little more demonstratively than normal. “Either way, maybe now everybody can shut the fuck up about it and get back to talking about hockey. We’re in the NHL, not Sweet Valley High.”

Everyone at the table nodded except Kent and Chessy: Chessy because he didn’t understand the reference, and Kent because he was too lost in thought to register what else was being said around him, the sound of Taughannock Falls roaring in his mind’s ear.

* * *

Exaggerating how much laundry he needed to do, Kent retreated to his house as soon as the Squad would let him and curled up on his leather sectional, staring at his phone like it would ring and save him the trouble of deciding who to call first.

He knew Jack wouldn’t take his call. He didn’t know the boyfriend’s number. Bad Bob had given Kent his number ages ago, in case he’d needed any advice about the NHL; Kent thought of the man like a second father, since he’d mentored both of them after Kent and Jack had bonded in the Q. When things had started getting more than friendly with Jack, it had been Alicia that Kent had hesitantly confessed to being not-straight to, but it had been Bob that had reassured him that he was far from the first queer man to make his way into the NHL. That his relationship with Jack didn’t have to mean the end of his professional dreams. That it was possible to be both, so long as he was smart about it.

Jack _clearly_ hadn’t taken his father’s advice on that score.

Fingers shaking, Kent found Bob’s number in the address book he kept in the front hall credenza and dialed it. He wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted the call to connect.

_“Oui, c’est Robert.”_

“Bob?” Kent’s eyes closed against how fucking young he sounded.

A beat. _**“Kent.”**_ There was something in Bob’s voice that almost hurt to try and identify. _“Merde alors, Kenny; comment vas-tu? It’s been years; are you all right?”_

“I, um…” A shaky breath, and then Kent got hold of himself. “I heard about Jack. Him getting sent down to the Pincers, I mean.”

_“Oui; c’est vrai. It’s the way of two-ways, n’est ce pas? Considering everything, he’s lucky it isn’t worse. Eric is a good boy, but they are both far too impulsive. Some time on the farm team for Jacques will drive that lesson home, and perhaps they will both learn from it. But what about you? Alicia and I have been hearing rumors; we’ve worried for you.”_

Kent swallowed around the lump in his throat, glad that they weren’t on Skype. He didn’t want Bad Bob Zimmermann to know that he was already crying. “I go into unrestricted free agency in about… ten days? The, uh… the Aces don’t want me anymore. Not with all the stuff about me an’ Zimms in the water supply.”

_“Cochons.”_ The way Bob spat the word out almost made Kent laugh out loud. _“They don’t deserve you, Kenny. You have what Wayne had, and if they are fools enough to give you up over this, they will learn the meaning of regret when you prove it.”_

Kent’s breath stilled. “I… Bob, why… I’m not like Jack-”

_“Of course you’re not. Do you think I was only watching Jacques all those years? Or that I haven’t watched you since?”_ Kent’s breath gave a strange hitch, and Bob’s voice softened. _“Kenny, je comprend why you haven’t kept in touch. What happened between you two… c'était compliqué, et tragique, but it hasn’t changed the affection Alicia and I have for you. I’m as proud of your accomplishments as your own father would be, if he had lived to see you now.”_

This time Kent was sure Bob could tell he was crying. There just wasn’t anything he could do to keep it under wraps. “We can’t actually know that. He died when I was thirteen.”

_“If it brings you no comfort to imagine that he would support you, and be proud of the man you’ve become, then so be it. But I am proud of you, Kenny. And Jacques will never be the kind of player you are.”_

“He’s your son,” Kent protested.

Another pause. _“You say that like it means I can’t care about you just as much.”_ He allowed the wounded noise Kent let out pass, and then continued. _“You love the ice like it is a part of you, the way I did, and regardless of what team’s colors are on your back, you are a better player than I was. Ecoutez-moi bien.”_

It took everything Kent had to keep his voice from trembling. “Bob, I… thank you. That’s… I don’t know if I can actually live up to that, but it’s nice of you to say.”

Bob chuckled. _“We’ll just have to see about that then, won’t we? In the meantime, what can I do? I still have connections; if there is a team you wish to play for, just say the word and I’ll start making calls.”_

“No, no… that’s…” Kent sighed. “I haven’t even really thought about it; I mean, back when, I always figured that eventually the GMs would trade either me or Jack around until we were both on the same team, with how we were in the Q and all, but I doubt the Falcs would want to bring me in if they’re sending Zimms down; not with the crazy still going around. And my agent wants to see what offers are gonna come in before we make any decisions. Just… just tell Jack I said to keep his head up, okay? And that I’m looking forward to kicking his ass again when he’s back up?”

That got a more full-throated laugh, and the sound eased something tense in Kent’s chest. _“I will. But you keep your own head high as well, comprends-tu? You have nothing to be ashamed of, Kenny. And don’t let seven years go by before you call us again, either, or I will have Alicia call your mother about the matter.”_

Kent winced with a laugh. “Yes, sir. Je comprend.”

_“Good.”_ Bob’s voice was warm. _“It’s good to hear from you, Kenny. Je suis sérieux; call if you need anything.”_

“I will… and thanks.”

The line disconnected, and Kent stared at the screen for a long time before getting up to go make himself a smoothie and try to breathe through more emotions than he’d tried to process in a very long time.

When the sound of the blender died away, he heard the tail end of his “unknown caller” ringtone. The same number rang in again as he was checking the missed call, and Kent picked it up when he saw that the call’s origin was Providence, Rhode Island. “Parson.”

_“Is not very friendly way to answer phone, Kent Parson,”_ admonished a playful Russian voice on the other end of the line.

“Nobody’s friendly all the time,” Kent chirped back. “Except maybe crazy Russian enforcers. How’s it hanging, Mashkov?”

_“Have been thinking about you lately,”_ Mashkov answered with surprising honesty. _“Wondering if you are needing cheered up, or if team is still caring for you correctly.”_

“Most of ‘em don’t wanna know me from a hole in the ground anymore,” Kent told him, taking his smoothie out into his three-season room and settling onto the love seat facing the windows. Kit jumped up onto the seat beside him, purring and rubbing her face on his knee. “I’ve only got about five guys that haven’t decided I’m scum, and that’s not enough to hold a team together even if the Aces were keeping me.”

_“You have two Cups and 31-point streak,”_ Mashkov replied, disbelief etching his voice. _“More than a decade of good years left. How they can decide to not keep you?”_

“Apparently, the possibility that I like dicks other than my own makes somebody in the front office just uncomfortable enough to outweigh my ability to put asses in stadium seats.” Kent took a long drink of his smoothie to wash the sour taste of those words from his mouth. “But I’ll be fine. Hey, tell St. Martin congrats on finally getting the ‘C’, man. He earned it.”

_“I will!”_ Mashkov agreed brightly. _“Is nice to have things to be happy about, with news that Zimmboni will not be with us this season.”_

“Yeah.” Kent hesitated. “How’s he taking it?”

_“Upset,”_ Mashkov told him. _“More since his agent tell him there is no way to fight it. Contract does not say cannot be sent down in case of winning Stanley Cup, and Zimmboni is not persuading Julia to change mind.”_

It took Kent a moment to remember: Julia Kelley, former member of the Brampton Thunder and now GM for the Falconers. She had two championship cups to her name herself, and a reputation for having played with all the tenacity of her Scottish heritage before the NWHL had suspended operations in 2007 and she’d gone into management rather than continue playing for the CWHL. “Yeah… I can see how Zimms might not be making any headway convincing her.”

_“Zimmboni will be fine. I worry for B, though; his mother has been okay about him loving Zimmboni, but I’m thinking not everyone home is. He had to shut down his v-log because of hatefulness over kiss. PR and security have his passwords; I’m thinking there have been threats.”_

“Shit… poor kid.” Kent scritched around Kit’s ears, feeling a flame of anger build in his chest. “He doesn’t deserve that kinda shit just because Jack did something stupid in the heat of the moment.”

_“No, but deserving doesn’t mean getting. If it did, Aces would be making you better deal instead of letting you go.”_

Kent chuckled. “That seems to be the prevailing opinion among everyone _but_ the Aces front office.”

_“Are you preferring any team to make you offer?”_

“Not really,” Kent lied. He didn’t want to tell Mashkov that the one team his heart hoped would offer for him was the last one likely to. “No point in wishing. Just gonna see who actually makes an offer and run some cold, hard math.”

_“Well, would be easier to arrange dating you if you live on East Coast.”_

“Right: that fabulous steak dinner you promised me,” Kent laughed. “So when I turn the Avs or the Jets down, I should tell ‘em it’s because Alexei Mashkov wants to take me on a date?”

_“Of course not. Good contract is good contract. But plane tickets have to be bought in more advance than train.”_

There was a note in Mashkov’s voice that brought Kent up short. His breath was still in his throat for a long moment before he was able to answer that. “Yeah… I guess that’s true.”

_“You are worth it, though,” Mashkov continued, his tone no longer playful. “So we will just have to make it work when you decide your new team.”_

“You don’t know a damned thing about me,” Kent shot back, unable to help himself. Everything was in too much flux right now for him to keep his internal alarms from shrieking at the concept of Alexei Mashkov being serious about asking him out. “Watching my tape with the press and stalking my Insta doesn’t count.”

_“Maybe so,”_ Mashkov conceded, managing at the same time to not sound remotely like he agreed with the argument. _“Isn’t point of going on date to find out what you don’t know about beautiful man with sad eyes?”_

Panic slammed up into Kent’s throat, shoving the words “I don’t do dating” past his lips before he could think beyond them. He couldn’t even begin to consider the implications of Alexei Mashkov being interested in him right now. Not when he didn’t even know which team he’d be playing for in three months’ time. He didn’t have the room to think about anything else.

A quiet moment in its wake. Then: _“All right, Kent Parson. But you keep phone number. In case of changing mind.”_

“I’ll see you on the ice, Mashkov,” Kent replied, refusing to acknowledge that statement one way or another, then hung up the phone before the Russian could have the chance to reply.

He was still calling himself ten kinds of stupid when he got out of the shower half an hour later, but there was no taking it back now. Mashkov might’ve tried to leave things open-ended, but Kent had shut him down as hard as he could without being untruthfully cruel. Given time and distance, Mashkov would find someone else to take on that dinner date.

Willing how much that thought hurt to go away, Kent called Scraps to see how many of the Squad could be convinced to drop by if he sprang for pizza and wings.

* * *

The initial offer from the Rangers came in by 8:01 AM on July 1st: exactly eight hours after Kent’s contract with the Aces officially expired.

By lunch, the Leafs and the Senators had each submitted competing bids.

An hour after that, the Jets and the Islanders had both offered him the same contract, with the Islanders attaching an option for a two-year extension and the Jets promising a hefty signing bonus.

By the morning of July 2nd, all eight of the teams Mike had expected to make offers and two they hadn’t were in an all-out bidding war for his skills.

The few Aces still loyal to him were camped out in his house by lunch on the first, which saved Kent the trouble of having to battle the crowd of reporters that community security kept having to chase away from the gates if an errand or three needed run. He kept up the facade for their sake: trading jokes and snickering as the Flyers made an offer that couldn’t possibly compete with the others. He ran the numbers almost faster than Mike could, and dismissed the offer from the Canucks almost as soon as it was made, knowing they were going to be outbid by the other teams.

The New Jersey Devils could try and beat the Rangers’ offer all they wanted. Kent Fucking Parson was _not_ fucking well playing for _Jersey_.

His mother and sister arrived on July 3rd: in part to celebrate his birthday and in part to try and help him make a decision about where to go. The final offers had come in that morning: as expected, the Jets, Rangers, Islanders and Avalanche were the top four contenders. The Jets were offering him a total payout of eighty million over eight years; the Islanders had matched that and offered an option to extend by another two years. The Rangers were offering ninety-five million over ten years. The Avalanche, eager to woo a franchise player despite the strain it would put on their cap, was offering the most: one-hundred-five million over ten years.

It should’ve been an easy decision. Colorado wasn’t far from Vegas, so it would make sense to keep his house for the off-season. It was more money than anyone in his family could’ve ever dreamed of making. Managed properly, it could ensure that his mother and sister would never have to worry about their finances ever again; not that they truly needed to now, given how much he’d earned in the past seven years. Based on cold hard math, it was the most logical choice.

Something still felt off. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but every time he tried to work through the variables, to apply some kind of logic that would show him the deciding factor, he ended up staring in blank frustration at the pages Mike had written up for him that broke down the deals he was being offered.

Finally, as he stared at the pages spread out across his dining room table for the fifth time since his birthday dawned, Katie walked right past him and started gathering them up. “Hey!”

“You won’t be playing for any of them if you go cross-eyed staring at these,” she informed him airily, quickly shuffling the pages into alternating piles and carrying them out of the room. “It’s your birthday; let it go for twenty-four hours and lighten up.”

“I owe them an answer,” Kent protested, following her as she took the paperwork up to the guest room that Mike had been occupying and placed it on the dresser. “And the sooner I figure it out, the sooner I can just move on.”

Katie turned, crossing her arms and throwing a face somewhere between skeptical and impatient. “Your energy’s so scattered that you’re barely on the planet, Kent. Trying to force yourself into the decision isn’t going to help anything. Now are you going to cooperate and come with Mom and I to the spa like we planned? Or have you decided to spend the whole day brooding over the fact that you have to make this decision at all?”

Kent’s eyes were dark as oiled slate as he glared at his implacable little sister, doubly irritated by the fact that she was completely unmoved by it. Her own eyes were steel ringed with fire as she glared right back, unflinchingly diving into what must’ve been the millionth staring contest they’d engaged in their lifetimes.

As usual, Kent backed down first. Though Katie was only younger than he by two years, he’d never been able to out-stubborn her. “I don’t know why I can’t just… decide,” he finished lamely.

Sighing, Katie crossed the distance between them and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Because you’re not ready to close this chapter of your life. Trying to force yourself into that headspace is just gonna end with you regretting whatever choice you make. Didn’t Mike say that you could take at least until the end of the week?”

“Yeah.”

“So? Take the day; your _birthday_ , I’d like to remind you; and stop worrying about it. You’ll know when you know, and in the meantime, you’re allowed to enjoy the fact that Mom’s not giving us the eyebrow about going out to the club with your boys tonight.”

Kent made a face. “Maybe if she knew you’d been eyeing Jazzy up like he was a damn side of beef ever since you got here…”

“Shut up!” She play-slapped at his left shoulder as she said it, blushing to the roots of her strawberry-blonde hair. “I might not‘ve been born on the Fourth of July like _some_ overachievers I know, but I’m a red-blooded American woman and he’s not only single and handsome to an unfortunate degree, but he doesn’t act like he knows it. I’m allowed to consider it and you can’t make him skate suicides anymore if we decide to do what consenting adults _do_.”

“Dude, _stop_.” Kent made a face and retreated from the room, heading for the stairs. “I will take it as a personal favor if you resist the urge to flaunt the fact that you know what sex is for the rest of my birthday.”

“Fine by me.” Katie danced past him once they reached the foot of the stairs, offering an impish smile. “But that means you’re not allowed to get mad if I molest Jazzy on the dance floor.”

“I hate you,” Kent told her by way of agreement.

“You really don’t,” Katie’s shot back as she headed for the kitchen to find their mother.

Kent let himself smile fondly at her retreating form before following. Because, no: he really didn’t.

* * *

_July 4, 2016_

It had been a pretty awesome twenty-sixth birthday, all things considered. Taking his sister’s advice and forgetting about the offers he’d been made for the day, letting himself be pampered at the spa and sung to, albeit badly off-key, by his remaining friends on the Aces had cheered him up more than he’d expected. Dinner had been surf-and-turf on the grill, followed by a triple-chocolate cake with cherry creme patisserie between the layers and frosted with a chocolate buttercream made by his mother after they’d all gone to bed the night before.

Not unexpectedly, his mother had elected to stay at his house with Kit and watch a movie rather than venture out to Encore Beach Club with the rest of them. It was just barely after sunset; the fireworks would be starting soon, and Kent was feeling more than pleasantly mellow as he watched his sister and friends playing in the pool. Swoops and his wife, Lisa, were getting another round of drinks at the bar, and in the wake of his second Neon Carrot of the night, Kent was finally able to feel the tension he’d been carrying for days drain from his shoulders.

Even the surly expression Jazzy was wearing while Katie and Baller got into a splash fight wasn’t enough to budge Kent’s buzz. He could always threaten to geld Jazz tomorrow. He was feeling too relaxed, too close to happy, to care about any of it tonight.

So when a brunette in a sleek black dress sat down on the couch beside his, old-fashioned glass in hand, Kent barely glanced at her before his eyes returned to watching the antics in the pool. “Great night for fireworks,” he offered as a greeting.

“You should see the displays they do over the riverfront,” she replied, her voice almost teasingly light.

“There’s no river in Vegas,” he returned, puzzled.

“There is in Providence.”

Kent’s attention jerked to her face. Julia Kelley was sitting back on her couch with her legs crossed, calmly sipping her Manhattan with an amused expression hovering around her eyes. “You weren’t expecting me.”

“You didn’t RSVP,” Kent managed, wishing he’d taken Swoops up on getting him another drink.

“I thought you could use a birthday surprise.” She glanced at her watch, then up at the sky. “Show’s going to start soon.”

“Yeah.” Steadying himself, Kent uncurled and sat up straighter. He wished he had a snapback to hide his messy hair. “Just a matter of time now.”

“Time and money,” Julia added. Her eyes were twinkling in the dim light.

“Getting offered lots of both lately.” Kent was trying to play along; he really was. But he was slightly buzzed, and even when he was sober, he wasn’t all that good at being coy unless it meant he’d be getting fucked stupid by the end of the night. 

“Anybody offering ten and eleven-and-a-half?” Kent stopped breathing. Julia’s smile widened and she sipped at her Manhattan again. “I thought not.”

“Are you serious?” Kent croaked. When she nodded with a soft hum, Kent sat forward. “What about Zimms?”

“Art Nichols tells me that you almost went to the mat trying to get them to offer for Zimmermann before he decided to sign with us.” Julia’s eyes never left Kent’s face, tracking every tiny muscle movement. “Has something changed since then?”

The casual question went through Kent like a spear, something coiling in his gut that he hadn’t felt in almost ten years. “Not a damned thing.”

“Good.” She opened the tiny clutch purse that dangled from her wrist and withdrew a business card, handing it to Kent. It took him a moment to register that it wasn’t hers, but the Falconers’ owner’s. The offer she’d just made him was noted on the back. “Your agent will have our formal offer by seven AM: ten and eleven-and-a-half; alternate captain; no trade; no movement. You’ll even get to keep your number. All you have to do is say yes.”

By the time Kent tore his eyes away from the numbers on the back of Tarqin Navras’ card, she was standing up to leave. “Why?” he blurted out, unable to stop the question. When she glanced down, her earrings glinting in the light, Kent almost wanted to take it back. Instead, he stood up to meet her gaze. They were of a height, her body still powerfully built despite how long she’d been retired from play. “You know why they let me go. Even sending Zimms down won’t change what’ll happen if you sign me. Why?”

A soft smile, kind and no longer tinged with sardonic amusement. “Tarqin’s a fan,” she told him honestly. “And so am I.”

When Kent startled, blinking in disbelief, Julia plucked the cherry from her glass and tore it from the stem with her teeth, swallowing it after two quick chews. “What about Zimms?” he repeated.

“Jack Zimmermann is going to spend a year finding out what it’s really like to play in the big boys’ club,” Julia told him. “When he’s ready, we’ll bring him back up. And then Parse-and-Zimms will be back on the ice together, where they belong.”

The words sent a shiver washing over Kent’s skin: a feeling like destiny moving pieces into place.

Overhead, the first fireworks burst into the air. Kent couldn’t take his eyes away from the woman in front of him, offering him something he’d thought lost to him as easily as a stick of gum.

A soundless chuckle, and Julia patted his upper arm. “Happy birthday, Kent Parson.” And then she walked away, leaving Kent stunned beneath a sky filled with exploding stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Merde alors - Holy shit  
> Comment vas-tu? - How are you?  
> C’est vrai - it’s true  
> N’est ce pas - isn’t it  
> Cochons - Pigs  
> Je comprend - I understand  
> c'était compliqué, et tragique - it was complicated, and tragic  
> Ecoutez-moi bien - Listen to me well  
> Comprends-tu - Do you understand?
> 
> ♥ ♥ ♥ 
> 
> Neon Carrot - variation on a Long Island Iced Tea:
> 
> .5 ounces Tres Agaves tequila  
> .5 ounces Few Spirits gin  
> .5 ounces Pravda vodka  
> .5 ounces Mount Gay Preium White rum  
> .5 ounces Grand Marnier
> 
> Top off the glass with orange soda & garnish with a slice of lime. Designate a driver & drink responsibly.
> 
> ~_^


	5. Betting Structure

_/~ooooOOOoooo~\\_

_July 5, 2016_

Mike’s ringtone started blowing up Kent’s phone at 7:05 the next morning. Kent gave serious thought to ignoring it before accepting the fact that it would be a bad idea. “I know, Mike.”

_“You know? You **know**?!”_

“Julia dropped by EBC last night right before the fireworks.” Kent grunted, rolling out of bed and throwing his phone on speaker before going into the bathroom to start the shower. “How the fuck she knew I was there, I don’t fucking know. But she told me about the offer in person.”

_“Kent… all of the complications aside, they are offering you one-hundred-and-fifteen **million** dollars over the next ten years. Imagine what kind of counter offer the Jets could make when I-”_

“The Jets can’t afford to counter this and you know it,” Kent snapped as he shed the boxers he’d fallen asleep in. “I don’t give a wet shit how high any of their caps are, Mike. Their offers were final two days ago and they’re staying final today.”

 _“But if we’re not using this to leverage counters from the other teams...”_ Kent had muted his end of the call long enough to take care of nature and get into the shower, securing the phone in one of the cubbies in the wall to keep it from getting too wet. Mike hadn’t noticed, piecing together Kent’s headspace. _“You’re considering their offer.”_

“It’s a serious offer,” Kent replied calmly. “The most serious offer I’ve gotten since this mess started.”

_“You wouldn’t even be **in** this mess if it weren’t for that team!”_

“No.” Kent was surprised he hadn’t broken out in gooseflesh at the chill of his own voice. “I’m in this mess because the Aces’ front office is run by homophobes, or guys that won’t stand up to them. And most of the team is just as bad. You wanna try telling me that any of the other teams will be any easier to deal with in the locker room, no matter how bad their GMs want my 31-point streak?” Mike was silent, and Kent grunted as he started shampooing his hair. “Yeah, thought so. The Falcs knew about Zimms. They even met the boyfriend. They didn’t care. And they’re offering a better contract than anybody else. So yeah: I’m fucking considering it, Mike. Tell me a reason to not, if you can.”

_“How do you know they met the boyfriend?”_

Kent mentally cursed; he was too distracted lately to keep track of what was public and what wasn’t about this whole mess. It was a good thing that nobody from the press had been allowed inside the club last night, or he might’ve said something ill-advised in a fit of exasperated temper. “Zimms isn’t the only guy I know on that squad. The guy checked in after everything blew up; wanted to let me know they hadn’t known Zimms was gonna do that. Probably worried that I’d get in somebody’s face over it without the caveat.”

_“Okay. Okay: I’ll put together the paperwork and bring it by later. We need to look this over with a magnifying glass if you’re going to take this one seriously; make sure there are no surprises.”_

“Sure; come by around ten. Everybody else should be up by then. Thanks, Mike.”

 _“I go where you pay me to.”_ The line disconnected.

Kent sighed, sagging headfirst against the shower wall for a moment and letting the water stream over his body. He tried to imagine it washing away all of his worries. All the stress and the fear gnawing at the edge of his mind about how Jack would react to him taking Jack’s place on the team. He knew on instinct that Jack would see it that way. A lot of people might.

He wondered what Mashkov would think. Would the big, beautiful Russian still want to date him if he was taking something away from Jack, even temporarily?

It didn’t matter anyway. If he decided to take the offer, he’d be on thin enough ice trying to fit in with the team. Trying to take back the way he’d shut down Mashkov’s interest would only make things more complicated.

Slowly, his head lifted away from the wall as that thought sank in. Was he really considering returning the Russian’s flirtation? When the team he was going to be joining was _Zimms’_?

Almost viciously returning to scrubbing himself down, Kent tried not to swear at himself aloud. Zimms was in a relationship. He had that sweet little Georgia peach so madly in love with him that the kid had come out of the closet on national goddamned television when he hadn’t even been out to his own family, if what Mashkov had said was any indication. And that relationship was probably in for one Helluva rough patch: on top of the fallout back in Georgia and on the kid’s v-log, the kid was about to enter his senior year of college, and Zimms about to spend that year out of the spotlight playing for the Ellsworth Pincers. It would be nineteen kinds of bad fucking form to even consider trying to remind Zimms of how good they’d been together once upon a time when the Falcs moved him back up. Of how much better they could be now.

Would Jack be jealous if he returned from Maine to find Kent and Alexei growing closer? If the next year saw Jack breaking up with “B”, as Mashkov called him, would Jack want Kent back at last? Would it be a competition, with Jack and Mashkov doing subtle battle for Kent’s affections? He’d never been fought over before; not like that. He’d always wanted more than he’d been desired in return.

That’s how it had always felt with Zimms, at any rate. Like no matter how hard he loved or fucked or skated, Zimms was just that fraction too far away. Just beyond the edge of Kent’s fingertips.

Mashkov had come to him. Openly and honestly stated his interest, and made it clear that it wasn’t just one guy offering to take another guy’s mind off his troubles for a night. If he reached out, Mashkov would reach back. Kent knew it in his bones.

But could he really give up on Jack for good? Bury the love he’d carried for the better part of a decade… nearly half his life and all of his adulthood… and learn to live with how much that felt like failure? Play beside him for another decade of his life, wishing for what could never be? Would they even be able to play together the same way if the passion they’d felt for one another back in the Q was truly gone? Their no-look play was the reason the Falcs wanted Kent, at the end of the day; Julia had practically said as much. But if Zimms was indifferent to him now… if the relationship he’d been building with the kid from Samwell survived the next year… would they even be able to bring that much of the magic they’d been together back? Or was it gone forever?

Finally, Kent couldn’t take anymore. He was spinning round and round inside his own head until he was almost sick from it, and it wasn’t getting him anywhere. He needed someone else to sound it out, to keep him from letting the tail end of one attempt at logic lead directly into another, until he could no longer see the rink for the ice.

Emerging from the shower, Kent flopped back down on his bed, naked but for the towel wrapped around his hips. He remembered when he’d finally confessed to his mother and Katie about his affair with Jack. It had been three days after the draft. Jack had still been in the hospital; Alicia had called Kent to congratulate him and let him know that they were moving Jack into an inpatient rehab program. Kent had finally broken down and begged her to put Jack on the phone; sneak it in if she had to, or give him the phone number for Jack’s room at the hospital and he’d call himself.

He remembered with bitterest clarity the regret in her voice, the reluctance, as she’d finally told him that Jack didn’t want to talk to him. That she and Bob were proud enough to burst, and so happy for his bright future. But Jack had flatly refused their attempts on Kent’s behalf.

His mother and Katie had been out shopping when he’d made the call. They’d come back to find him curled around the phone on the bed, crying like he hadn’t done since his father had died fighting a house fire three weeks before he’d started eighth grade. They’d dropped their bags and huddled around him in an instant, helping him through the sobs that choked his breath and clogged his nose, holding him until the wracking spasms had finally run their course.

Maureen Parson hadn’t even flinched as her son, cradled in her arms like he hadn’t let her do in half a decade, confessed that he was no longer a virgin. That he’d fallen head over heels for Jacques Laurent Zimmermann, that the relationship had been sexual for almost two years. That the boy he loved no longer wanted to speak to him, not even to congratulate Kent on going first in the draft or reassure Kent that his OD hadn’t been intentional. His sister’s grip on his hands had only gotten tighter, almost to the point of grinding the bones together, the bright ring around her pupils flaring with protective rage on his behalf.

They’d let him talk until his voice, already hoarse from the force of his sobbing, had practically given out. Maureen had made him tea using the little coffee maker in the hotel room; a calming infusion that she’d blended herself from verbena, linden and three kinds of mint. It was one of Kent’s favorites, and it had taken three cups before his head had cleared enough for him to really take in the familiar, soothing fragrance. And all the while they’d hugged him close, and assured him that it wasn’t his fault, and that perhaps Jack would come around after his rehab was over. It would only be a month, his mother had assured him, and a busy one for Kent in the meantime.

When Jack hadn’t called after getting out, either… well, that had sealed it for Katie and his mother. Kent hadn’t brought Jack up to them again, though they both knew that Kent’s feelings were unaffected by the way Jack had ghosted him. He didn’t tell them about going to see Jack at Samwell after his first Stanley win. Or about trying to convince him to sign with the Aces.

No, if Kent tried to talk through his conflicted emotions with them, he knew what their opinion would be: finally put his feelings for Jack to rest, and move on, as Jack had clearly done, to someone who was able to not only be honest about their own feelings but return Kent’s without reservation.

It would be the same with the Parser Protection Squad. Over the weeks since the Kiss, he’d fielded all manner of oblique questions from Swoops and Jazzy. Chessy had only asked if the rumors about Kent and Jack in the Q were true, and had reckoned the rest none of his business. Baller’s questions had been… somewhat more blunt, but thankfully he’d asked them when he and Kent were alone and Kent could tell him what he was and wasn’t going to answer without worrying about one of the others punching Baller in the mouth for upsetting him.

Only Scraps knew everything. Steadfast, discreet Scrappy, who had slept in Kent’s guest room for almost a year after being traded onto the Aces by Edmonton. Who had a beautiful California blonde on his arm in all the right pictures: one that couldn’t come running to play arm candy at every function Scraps needed to attend because she was working on her doctorate in Resource Economics at U.C. Berkeley.

Scraps, whose heart had belonged to that beautiful blonde and her equally beautiful brunette fraternal twin brother ever since their junior year of high school together. Who had gone bone-white when Kent had walked in on an intimate Skype conversation between the three of them exactly six weeks after Scraps had moved into Kent’s house. Who had been red-eyed with gratitude when Kent hadn’t thrown him out, and had stayed up until dawn talking with Kent about love and sexuality in the NHL over microbrews and Call of Duty.

No: talking to Scraps about Jack would only end with an earnest reminder of exactly how fucked up it was that Jack had kissed his boyfriend on national fucking television without giving any apparent thought to what exposing his own sexuality so publicly would mean for Kent. And the others had all expressed varying degrees of the sentiment that the next time they were on the ice with Zimmermann, they’d take the first opportunity they got to drop gloves and punch him right in his kiss-happy mouth. Which left him with no one.

Even surrounded by supportive friends and loving family, Kent couldn’t remember feeling how alone he was this acutely since he’d found out about Jack’s overdose.

_“This represents abandonment. Isolation. Betrayal. Whatever you asked, there’s a great loneliness at the heart of it, and you feel like there’s no one you can rely on.”_

Slowly sitting up as the words echoed unbidden in his memory, Kent felt a inner stillness, the pause before a trap is sprung. Slowly, he reached out and opened the drawer of his bedside table, his fingers finding the business card almost without him even needing to look.

He hadn’t wanted to believe. Robert had even said that the cards’ predictions could be changed and it was only his past and present that they could read with complete accuracy. But Kent didn’t need them to predict the future. He just needed them to help him get out of his own way and see things clearly.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Kent was dialing the shop and hoping that he could evade the press for long enough to get what he needed.

* * *

By the time Kent got to the shop, it was almost 8:30. Robert had been happy to again come in early for Kent, and met him at the door almost before Kent had reached the exterior threshold. “Thanks for doing this.”

Robert smiled as he walked Kent into the back. “With everything they’ve been talking about in hockey news lately, I wondered if you might need another session.”

Kent made a non-committal sound as they sat down, setting his phone up to record this session as Robert located the deck he wanted and lit some incense. The scent was lavender, and light, and soothing to Kent’s senses as he noted Robert unwrapping the same deck that had been used before. Kent smiled a bit wryly. “Gotta use that specific one for me, huh?”

“It’s already familiar with your energy,” Robert explained. He then gave an impish smile. “Besides, it likes you.”

Both of Kent’s eyebrows shot up to the line of his snapback. “You realize I have _absolutely_ no idea what to do with that information.”

“Maybe nothing at all,” Robert answered, handing the deck across to Kent. “Except see what they have to say.”

Taking a slow, calming breath, Kent shuffled the cards, let himself relax and focus on the biggest question on his mind. The one that would drive everything that would follow: _Should I take the Falconers’ offer?_. When it felt right, Kent stopped, drew three cards off the top of the deck and then set down the rest.

_Eight of Cups_ : a mermaid diving deep into the water, with a chalice in her hands and a strange antenna with a bioluminescent bulb at the end lighting her way down. Just above her tail, ripples spread from where she’d broken through the surface, with light filtering down into the water around her.

 _Nine of Pentacles_ : a woman seated on a shell, serenely playing piano beneath a tree. A stained glass disc with a star at the center hung from the tree, its points curving in gentle arcs away from the body rather than pointing straight out. The Golden Ratio was everywhere on this card, whispering at Kent’s analytical mind about the inexplicable perfection that occurred in nature, uncontrolled by man.

 _The King of Pentacles_. He remembered that card from his last reading: someone strong and steady, able to be the support he needed. Someone to hold onto until his feet were under him again.

He could feel Robert’s eyes on him, sharper than they seemed. When Robert didn’t start explaining the cards right away, Kent hesitated, then looked up to meet his gaze. “What do they mean?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Robert hedged. “You looked for a second like you saw something in them. What was it?”

“Well, I remember this one,” Kent replied, tapping the King of Pentacles. “Somebody I can count on, right? And the first one kinda looks like a card from last time, too, but it’s not the same one.”

Robert nodded and touched the top edge of the Eight of Cups. “You’re trying to avoid a fall, but at the same time, you’re facing all sharp edges and harsh surroundings. You’re exhausted from the effort of dealing with all of that and trying to stay on your feet. This card is telling you that it’s okay to let yourself fall into the water. It’ll be gentler for those few seconds that you’re under the surface, and you can let the water have everything that’s draining you.”

A tremor or recognition swept down Kent’s spine. The shudder caught Robert’s attention and his eyes narrowed, and another, shallower chill swept over Kent under his gaze. “You’ve been dreaming about it, haven’t you?”

Kent blinked twice, then slowly nodded. “Since the last reading, I keep having this dream about a tree getting struck by lightning. It’s at the top of these falls I used to play near as a kid, and when it happens, I get knocked off the cliff top and fall towards the water. Sometimes I go under; sometimes I wake up before I hit.”

“Maybe next time you dream it, you should let go of your fear of the fall,” Robert offered. “See what the dream is trying to tell you about what comes after you break the surface. Or better yet: instead of letting the storm knock you off the edge, take control and dive into the water below.”

“Is that what the middle card means, too?” Kent asked. “Take control and don’t be afraid?”

“No.” Robert gave a lopsided smile himself. “That card means that you should find a quiet moment to take stock of what you have, both spiritually and materially. Especially the things that no one can take away from you. Things you’ve earned through self-confidence and hard work that will always be yours.”

“Hard to see what can’t be taken away when it feels like everything is,” Kent groused, his tone low and not quite bitter.

“Except that’s when it’s the most important to remember those things.” Robert gathered up the cards and placed them back in the deck. “Try this: shuffle again, and this time, ask the deck to tell you what would help you see. To show you your light in the darkness. When it’s ready, you’re going to lay out seven cards”

Feeling a little strange about it, Kent did as he was bid.

_The Eight of Cups again. The King of Wands. The Star. The Page of Swords. The Chariot. The Hierophant. The Five of Wands._

“Did that first card come back up because I was thinking about that thing on her head?” Kent asked, indicating the Eight of Cups having resurfaced. “Because that’s her “light in the dark” or whatever…”

Robert let out a sound halfway between a chuckle and an honest-to-God titter. “Maybe. It’s definitely relevant to the purpose of the reading isn’t it?”

Kent gave a little chuckle of his own. “So what’s the rest of it mean?”

“The King of Wands is represents a person. Someone that’s a direct influence on the situation. It’s usually someone that wields authority like they were born to it. A naturally-charismatic person, confident and graceful and strong. The Star is almost a literal interpretation here: we all have ‘guiding stars’ in dark times, things that we use as a spiritual or emotional or psychological compass to help find our way. These cards are all telling you to trust it, and yourself. To be confident in your own abilities and instincts rather than giving in to the doubts that all of this nonsense has caused you to feel.” Reaching out, Robert picked up the Five of Wands. Kent remembered that card from his first session with Robert as well. “That you have what it takes to punch back.”

Feeling a little unsure of himself, Kent started gathering up the cards again. Instinct was telling him to take up the cards again, to shuffle and question and deal them out, but he didn’t know how to explain the impulse beyond that he had another question that needed answering. Taking the full deck into his hands, Kent hesitated for a moment, then glanced up at Robert. “I, um… how do I know if it’s the right number of cards? I don’t think three’s gonna be enough for what I wanna ask.”

“They’ll tell you,” Robert assured him. “Just like they’re telling you when they’ve been shuffled enough. You’ve got a knack for this, really. Trust your instincts.”

Distinctly startled by the idea that he’d be good at something he hadn’t even _believed_ in six months ago, Kent decided to shelve dealing with that for the moment and started to shuffle. Over and over, he slid the cards against one another, and let the thoughts echo in his mind, a litany of uncertainty: _I know what you’re telling me to do. But if I choose the Falcs, I’ll need to finally let Jack go. I won’t be able to stand it otherwise. I don’t know how to let go of him; I’ve never been able to move on. He won’t let me. And even if I do, what happens if he won’t? Or if I can’t get the team to trust me? I want what you’re telling me, but I don’t know if I can pull it off. I need you to show me how._

His hands felt strange—: almost like there was a buzz under the skin of his palms and fingers. Kent finally stopped and started dealing the cards out, one after another, until there were twelve in total spread out on the cloth between he and Robert: two neat groups of six.

_The Five of Cups. The Emperor, reversed. The Two and Three of Pentacles. The Magician. The Three of Swords._

_The King of Wands, the Star and the Chariot again. The Ace of Wands. The Moon, reversed. The King of Cups._

“What does it mean when cards keep coming up in multiple readings?” Kent asked, eyes drifting over the details of the spread he’d instinctively chosen.

“It’s reinforcing the message that the cards are trying to give you. Sometimes it means asked-and-answered; other times it’s simply that your questions, though different, are more interconnected than you admit, and the cards are trying to show you that.” Robert shrugged. “Depending on the deck, it can be a sign that they know you’re trying to evade the answer by asking the question a different way, and so it’s their way of telling you that they’re not as easily fooled as humans. They read energy and intention, not the actual words in your brain.”

Kent laughed a little, then sat back. Almost as an afterthought, he picked up the rest of the deck and started lightly shuffling the cards. The action felt… oddly soothing, somehow. “So what’s all this mean?”

“The first grouping here,” Robert started, gesturing at the Five of Cups through the Three of Swords, “means that you can’t ignore the loneliness and abandonment that you feel, but you can’t afford to wallow in your losses and regrets, either. Mourn what you’ve lost, because you have to, but all times of grief come to an end, and the sooner you let yourself feel it completely, the sooner you can put those emotions away.

“It’s not actually possible for man to control everything; we tell ourselves that we can, but it’s sleight of hand; an illusion of control. The trick is to adapt to it, to know how to turn the wildness to your advantage. You have the ability to make your will manifest, the deftness to manipulate the unseen elements and draw them into reality. Just don’t try to take on too much at once and be flexible. You can’t manage everything all by yourself, but no one is expecting you to, either, no matter your gifts.

“This second group here,” Robert continued, “is just continuing on the theme. It’s reminding you of who you are, and that you have a guiding star inside that you need to stop second-guessing. Yes, the landscape is changing, and there will always be new challenges to try and make you stumble, but you exist on the fragile surface between sea and sky because you love those challenges. Don’t let yourself get lost while trying to find your way by falling prey to comforting illusions; instead, let the spark catch when it’s struck, and glory in the blaze that will come of it. And don’t forget, in the middle of all this new adventure, that you do have a protector. Whoever he is, he’s an old soul; patient and compassionate, tolerant and kind. But those qualities should never be mistaken for weakness; no matter what, he’s not someone to be underestimated, either.”

Kent had stopped shuffling and stared at Robert from the middle of the interpretation, his lips parted in shock. “Wait… that… that can’t be.”

“What can’t?” Robert asked, a touch surprised.

“You said it’s reminding me of who I am in the second half, but…” Kent gestured with one hand at the King of Wands. “That’s not me; that’s… well, I know who it is, but it’s not me.”

Robert’s face was very still as he returned Kent’s gaze. So still that Kent felt a chill pour over his skin like ice water and fought not to shiver openly under the steady train of Robert’s eyes. “Are you sure about that?” Robert asked, his voice low and oddly resonant in the quiet of the room. “Or is that just something you’ve told yourself for so long that you’ve forgotten why you started?”

“What is _with_ people lately that don’t know me from Adam talking like they do?” Kent demanded, setting the deck down on the table and pushing back almost defensively. “I’m just a guy that happens to be pretty good at hitting a black disc with a big stick while on ice skates. I’m not…”

_“...beautiful man with sad eyes...”_

_“Is easy to tell when someone is living with broken heart when you have seen same face in own mirror.”_

The steam went out of his resistance almost as soon as it had built up. Kent leaned forward, carefully picking the deck back up and flipping it over so he could see each of the cards. Without finishing the thought, he searched until he found the one he wanted: Nine of Cups, with its sleek, powerful merman poised to dive deep into the water.

Setting that card down on the cloth, he searched again until he found the Eight and laid them out together. The King of Wands, he moved to join them, then gathered the others into the deck and gazed at the ones he’d just selected. For long moments, he stared at the three cards, letting everything they were, everything they implied, sink in. Remembering a voice from his dreams under the sound of the falls roaring into the water around him. An accent that hadn’t been Québécois.

When Kent looked back up at Robert, the other man was smiling softly. “Looks like you found the answers you needed.”

“Yeah,” Kent replied slowly, returning the remaining cards to the deck. The decision he hadn’t known how to make was clear and strong in his mind now… the choice his heart had made before he’d even consciously known that path would be open to him. “I think maybe I have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, the twins’ names are Jason & Jessica Westmoreland. Jessica is allosexual and busy getting her doctorate from U.C. Berkeley in Resource Economics. Jason, her twin, is asexual and currently working as a paralegal at a medium-sized law firm. They are not romantically or sexually attracted to each other. Jessica is the only one having sex with Scraps. Jason does not watch them having sex.
> 
> Incest, including twincest, requires sexual or romantic attraction between the family members. That is not a part of Scraps’ relationship with the Westmoreland twins. Their relationship is v-shaped polyamory, not a threesome triangle.
> 
> My regrets for any confusion on this point due to the vagueness of Kent’s thoughts on the relationship in text.


End file.
